


You Have To Build a Bridge to Cross It

by velocity_times_2



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Davey is totally a sass master, Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, Spot and Race are bad at feelings, They're bad at a lot, Underage Drinking, and a mother hen, and communication, and trust, five times race has emotions about spot and one time spot has emotions about race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velocity_times_2/pseuds/velocity_times_2
Summary: Race isn't sure why the strike took everything from him but didn't give it all back.Alternatively: Five times Racetrack Higgins had strong emotions during the strike and the one time Spot Conlon was done not sharing his.





	You Have To Build a Bridge to Cross It

**Author's Note:**

> This legit sprung from me going "I wonder what happened to the flannel Race was wearing prior to Brooklyn's Here" into a 5k monster. Whoops.  
> I edited it, but if there's any grammar issues let me know, I've been sick all day.

Race was terrified.

Just the day before the entire lodging house had been a madhouse of newsies planning and murmuring and bubbling over with anger at the new price of papes. They had spread the news of the strike to ever borough and corner of the city, and everyone had turned their eye to what Spot Conlon was going to do.

Jack and Davey hadn’t returned from Brooklyn until after supper, and Jack had immediately swung himself up to the rooftop before anyone had a chance to ask any questions.

Spot hadn’t shown.

Spot had hidden himself away in his safe little corner of New York and let his fellow newsies get beaten to a pulp. Had let Race get slammed into the ground and kicked over and over and over. His ribs were more than certainly broken on his right side and the skin over them had been ripped apart enough to let every brush of his shirt over it sting.

He had been one of the lucky ones, too.

Surrounding him were the rest of the boys, his family, hissing and crying and moaning in pain at every movement. They had come back to the lodging house one by one throughout the day, some caked in mud or dust, others caked in their own blood. Elmer’s entire face had been streaked with it when he had stumbled in after lunch. The sight had made Albert turn and throw up in the middle of the entryway.

Romeo and Buttons were doing their best, but they weren’t doctors. Buttons had sewn a particularly deep gash on one of the little’s arms with shaky hands and Romeo had carefully wrapped Spec’s arm to make the bleeding from his cut stop. Race had produced his bottle of contraband whiskey to pour over wounds so they wouldn’t turn yellow and infected. There was barely a quarter of a bottle left.

Buttons had never sewn skin before and Romeo only knew how to clean up wounds, not how to fix them. It was an exceptionally long process that would have gone quicker with a doctor on hand. But it wasn’t like anyone had the ability to get one. So, they did what they could, going as far as ripping a shirt so it could be tied carefully for Les to make sure his arm would stay in place long enough to heal.

Davey had gone home while they doctored up his brother, explaining to his parents that they were going to stay with their new friends for a few days. For the first time since learning about their living situation, Race wasn’t jealous of the Jacobs boys. It was probably good that Davey had missed his brother’s screams when Romeo contorted his arm back into the position they thought it should have been in, too.

It wasn’t just seeing all his friends struggling to sit or talk or move that scared Race, though. It was the lack of Jack.

Everyone had noticed as the sun arched over the lodging house that their leader in all of this was still missing. Specs had climbed up to the penthouse to see if Jack was hiding there, but it was empty. Davey was getting physically agitated pacing around the bunk room and glancing out of the windows.

They all knew the possibility, that the reason Jack was gone wasn’t because he was hiding, but because he was bleeding out in a back ally. Or was in the Refuge, which to some would be considered even worse. Even with Specs now out searching, Race was jittery. At least then, Crutchie would have someone to look out for him.

Jack’s absence left a power gap, as well, one that was to be filled by Race at Jack’s strict command. When Fuzz had left and appointed Jack the leader, Jack had acknowledged Race as his second. That if anything were to happen, Race was to lead their small army of angry, headline shouting, newsies.

Well. Something happened.

Race was in charge now and he didn’t know what to do.

So yeah.

He was terrified.

The older kids had settled into a card game in the far corner of the bunk house and were trying to act as if their spirits were lifted enough to even care about it. It was a valiant effort, but kept falling short the longer they played. No one was willing to bet away what little money they had left with no promise of more coming anytime soon.

It had grown dark outside and with Jack still not around, Race was at a loss for what to do. He was just sitting on his bunk, staring at the ground, willing an answer to appear from it when Albert walked over and tapped the top of his head.

“We should probably put the littles to bed,” he said, motioning for the small group of younger kids who were all huddled on a bed above the card game, entranced by the older boys. Race nodded. Without Jack here, time seemed to be moving in leaps. Going by in a flash one moment and slowing to a stop the next. He hadn’t noticed that twilight had given way to full blown darkness. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting, staring at his shoes.

“Come on, you pipsqueaks,” Race raised his voice to be heard and unfolded his frame to stand up straight, even with the protest in his ribs, “Time for you to get some sleep.”

The older kids took that as a cue to shuffle around and help some of the little boys into their bunks. Protests rose for a moment along with muffled sniffles from a few who were still in pain. Instead of rejoining the card game, most of the older boys crawled into their bunks, too, settling in for the night.

“Racer?” a meek voice came from one of the top bunks.

“Whatcha need, Smalls?” He answered, leaning his head on the mattress to meet the younger boy’s eyes. Tears were beginning to form in them.

“Where’s Jack?” Smalls’ voice cracked, and then the dam broke and tears began to slide down his cheeks, “Is he dead?”

That one sentence had a previously quiet bunk room erupt into whimpers and crying and Race felt so out of his depth at this. Because, yeah, at this point Race was pretty sure Jack was dead too, and he kind of wanted to start crying with Smalls right then and there in the middle of the room.

“Of course he’s not,” Davey piped up then from where he was wrapping Les and Barney in a blanket. Bless Davey.

“Yeah, like Davey said,” Race smiled and patted the bed once in finality, “Ole Jackie boy is fine and dandy.” The words tasted like acid in his mouth as he said them, but he hoped the younger boys would believe him.

“What if he’s not though? Where is he?”

“Yeah! What if he got too hurt-“ Barney hiccupped from Les’s side and all of the sudden what Race thought had been the bottom of his out of depth-ness became just the top. Even Davey kept meeting Race’s eye and then darting his gaze around at the boys who were crying or whimpering, or curling up further and further under their blankets.

“I dunno where he is, but if he wasn’t okay, he’d be back here getting’ help, yeah?” Race tried to calm everyone down, but even though Smalls nodded, tears were still crawling down his cheeks.

Race knew this was all a product of exhaustion and pain and the fear that the closest thing these kids had to a parental figure was just _gone_ after the most terrifying experience of their lives, and he also knew that he was supposed to be the new adult here and he was supposed to have something to say and do to make it all better. But he didn’t. None of them did. Even the older boys who had been through scraps with the bulls and stints in the refuge looked nervous as they watched for what Race would do. Specs was silent, head hanging and refusing to meet Race’s looks for help. Henry was staring at him with Albert, both boys showing fear visibly in their faces. Mush and Blink weren’t even trying to hide how they clung to one another in Blink’s bunk like they normally did, even though everyone acknowledged that that was just how the two functioned. Their hands were intertwined and Mush had his face buried into the Blink’s neck as if he could block out the world just by closing his eyes.

And to top it all off, Race had nothing. He wanted to curl into his bunk and cry into a pillow with the rest of them.

Davey continued shushing the kids like a mother hen, Romeo had crawled into a bunk with Benny, and Race did the only thing his hurting brain could think of. Shoved between his mattress and the wall were three things: a bag with his money, a deck of cards, and the bottle of brown liquid.

“Here,” Race grabbed a glass of water from the floor and poured the water out the window. He splashed just a bit of the liquid into the cup and handed it to Smalls, “Drink this, pal.”

“You cannot give them-,” Davey whispered, eyes wide.

“Medicine?” Race cut him off as Smalls took the cup and drank, “I think after today it’ll help them get the rest they need.”

Davey sputtered but didn’t protest again as Race took the cup around and gave each little a small sip of old whiskey. By the time they each had had their medicine, Smalls was already droopy eyed. Tears still fell, but at least the room was once again quiet and they could all get some rest.

With the littles all drifting off, Race took the bottle in his hand and crawled out the window. He collapsed on the fire escape, grunting with pain. Two long swigs of whiskey and his head didn’t hurt as much, at least.

“ _That_ was your best plan?” Davey said, finally having followed Race out into the night air.

“You gots a better one?” He countered, offering the bottle up to Davey, knowing the accusatory tone was just Davey’s default. He grabbed the bottle and took a gulp, immediately turning and coughing once the liquor was down, leaning heavily on the railing.

“Fuck, how do you drink that?”

“You never had alcohol before, Dave?” Race asked, attempting to tease while his eyes stared at the brick of the building next to them.

“The newsie life has given me another horrible experience,” Davey said, sliding down the wall and sitting at Race’s side.

“Wait until your feet bleed because of the cold in winter. That’s a fun rite of passage,” Race’s tone was sarcastic, laced with the terror that still ran through his mind every time he was reminded that they were currently unemployed. If Pulitzer kept his prices up, and kept increasing them, Race didn’t think they’d make it through winter with half of the lodging house still alive. That thought made him bring the bottle to his lips again.

“Why didn’t Spot show?” Davey asked, and damn, it was like he was just driving Race to get drunk tonight.

“Hell should I know for?”

“You know ‘im right? You sell in his… territory. I got the feeling you were…” Davey waved his hand in front of them, “friends?”

Race wished he had a cigar.

“If there’s one thing you need to know about Spot Conlon,” Race set the bottle next to him decidedly, “is that he takes care of his own.” Race swallowed the lump in the back of his throat that formed around his next words so he could spit them out, “And I guess I’s not one of his own.”

David, thank god, let that be that.

They sat like that, David and Race shoulder to shoulder on the fire escape, for a long time. Neither drank from the bottle again, knowing that there was a house of boys behind them needing leadership and decisions made that couldn’t be made battling alcohol and head injuries.

“He’ll come back, right?” Davey’s voice was soft, quiet after they had sat in silence for so long.

“I’s sure as hell hope so.”

* * *

 

 Racetrack Higgins was furious. The fear and anxiety from the night before had melted quickly into pure anger when Davey had all but slammed into Race on the street and sputtered out that he had found Jack and they were to go forward with the rally idea he had formed that morning.

Jack was okay, that should have been a relief but instead it made rage well up from so deep inside Race’s body that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

So, he stormed off and left Davey gaping at him in the street.

Without selling to fill his time, Race didn’t know what to do. He could go over to the track and bet away what few coins he had to his name, but that meant crossing the bridge and entering Spot’s territory.

Spot.

Now there was the _other_ reason Race was furious.

That anger stuck with Race, flooded through his veins and pumped in and out of his heart all day long until evening settled over the city and newsies started to stream in from every direction into the theatre. Race had still yet to see Jack, but everyone was looking to Davey for strike leadership, and Race was one hundred percent fine with that. Davey was smarter than him, anyhows.

Race had propped himself up outside of the theatre in an alley, his cigar lit and smoke billowing from it as he stared in the direction of the bridge. He had just been able to make out Spot and his gang of boys on the horizon when he lit up. They were walking as a unit, heads high and all wearing shades of red. It was unsettling, like watching an army march onto a battlefield ready to get gunned down. It was a long street and watching Spot approach allowed Race to gather all of the anger that had been curling inside of him since yesterday and force it into a ball of rage in the pit of his stomach at the boy who was now, suddenly, standing in front of him.

“Racer,” Spot’s voice sounded broken and for some sick reason that made Race happy.

“Spot.” Race replied, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth.

Spot stared at Race.

Race stared right back.

“You got something to say, say it, Conlon.”

“Why’s yous angry?”

Race barked out a laugh that had his ribs screaming in pain. He stubbed out the cigar after just three puffs and pocketed the rest of it for later so he could really get into this conversation. He backed a few steps into the ally, away from the street where a shadow would hide them from view if anyone were to look for them.

“Why am I angry, Spotty? I guess a lot of reasons right now,” Race held up a finger to tick off his list, “One, we asked for help and you so rudely denied us, two, Jackie boy takes off to fuck knows where when it doesn’t go so great, and oh yeah. We got soaked into the fucking ground yesterday. I think I have a lot to be angry about.”

“We didn’t _deny_ you-“ Spot began but Race cut him off before he had a chance to go any further with that sentence.

“You’re right, Brooklyn didn’t deny us,” Race took a step forward so he could glare down his nose at Spot, “ _you_ denied us. You, Spot, left us to get slaughtered by those bulls.”

“Oh come on,” Spot huffed, meeting Race’s gaze in an obvious challenge, “how badly can a few bulls hurt a group of twenty fellas?”

Race saw spots in his vision he was so enraged from that one question.

“How bad? Ya wanna see how bad? This,” Race poked at the purple surrounding his eye, “ain’t enough for ya? Fine,” Race began unbuttoning his flannel shirt, fingers moving so quickly and with such force that one of the seams that had been wearing thin ripped. If it had been any other time Race would have cared and taken the shirt right to Buttons to fix. Instead he just threw the shirt to the side, forgotten in a back alley, and lifted his undershirt to expose the painting of bruises on his side, wounds still leaking and scrapes still raw, “How’s this for bad?”

Spots eyes were wide, and Race watched as his throat moved. He kept opening his mouth to speak but words weren’t coming out. It was a small, horrible victory.

“And I got out better than most,” Race continued, pulling his shirt back down and wincing at the scrape of fabric on raw skin.

“Race I,” Spot’s fingers reached forward as if they were going to touch his side but Race quickly pulled back further, out of reach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said no to Spot touching him.

“I know yous ain’t got the best relationship with Jack,” Race began, the anger crashing down through his body and leaving him hollowed out now that he had gotten under Spot’s skin, “and I knows you take care of your own, but I thought I was yours, too.”

Spot’s gaze locked with Race’s and he looked as desperate as Race had ever seen him. “You are, Race.”

“Am I, though? Because I wasn’t yesterday, or the day before when Jack asked for help. I wasn’t important enough to come stand up with, but I get it. Turf will _always_ come before me. I get the message, Spot, I ain’t stupid.” and with that Race shouldered past and entered the theatre.

* * *

 

Race knew he should feel ecstatic, excited. He knew he should be celebrating with his brothers at the win, at the lower price and the fact that they now wouldn’t have to worry about their own losses. He should feel joy that Crutchie was back with his signature smile and easy way about him.

But Race wasn’t excited or ecstatic or any other emotional E word Davey could throw at him.

He was just relieved.

Relieved that Jack was back, that he wasn’t the leader anymore.

Relieved that they would all probably survive through the next winter.

Relieved that this all worked out and none of them were dead, no matter how closely they had all been just days ago.

Relieved that Spot hadn’t attempted to speak to him all of the previous night or this morning.

Just… relieved.

Albert must have noticed his lack of joy, though, because he slid up to Race after they both had made it through the distribution line and eyed his friend.

“Why you so,” Albert waved his hand to encompass the general moodiness that Race was emitting.

Race shrugged in response.

“Ain’t you glad we won?”

“Course I am, Albie,” Race replied, flipping open the paper to scan the headlines for anything he could embellish upon to get customers, “just sleepy is all.” Race tried to punctuate that sentence with a smile, just to get Albert off his back. He didn’t know how to put what he was feeling right then into actual words.

“I’m surprised you didn’t start over the bridge already,” Albert leaned over his shoulder and scanned the columns and stories with him. Race started, a part of him not even considering selling in Brooklyn after everything that had happened over the last few days.

“’m not goin’ to the track today,” Race mumbled around the cigar he fished from his pocket in a knee jerk reaction to the uncomfortable feeling that was brewing in his stomach.

“You ain’t?” Albert seemed incredulous at the confession.

“Nah,” Race said, bumping into Albert in as friendly of a manner as he could, “thought I’d stay on this side of the bridge today and sell with my own.”

* * *

Racetrack Higgins was lonely.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that way when he was lying in a room surrounded by more than a dozen other snoring boys, but there he was. It was the middle of summer but the breeze from the open window chilled his skin and his bed just felt cold.

Lonely.

Lonely wasn’t something Race felt often, something he even knew how to feel when he was always around a group of guys who had become his family in his time selling papes. He had them, he had a brother in Jack, and Davey now too if the sporadic laughter from the rooftop was any indication of the older boy’s intent to stick around. He had brothers in Albert and Specs and Elmer and even tiny Smalls.

He had friends in Brooklyn, or at least he thought he had.

Spot’s name popped into his head after a day of pushing it aside for hours.

Spot.

If they had been on good terms Race would have sold his papes at the track, quick as his name suggested, and then forced Spot to do the same. If they hadn’t fought Race could have shared a cigar with him on the docks while making sure his littles didn’t drown or do anything too stupid. He could have laughed and played cards and strengthened the rocky bond between boroughs.

He could have been sleeping in a bed a lot less cold than the one he was in now.

But here he was, because Spot had made a choice and the choice wasn’t Race. So, Race curled in on himself even further, tucking his body close to the wall and forced his eyes shut and towards as much sleep as he could muster.

* * *

 Race was confused.

It had been over a week since the strike and he had yet to make his way across the bridge and back to the track. He knew his regulars were probably miffed that he wasn’t in his usual place by the betting windows and he missed the smell of dirt and hay, but he couldn’t bring himself to make the trek and admit that he so desperately wanted to be back in Spot Conlon’s territory.

He wasn’t confused because of that, though.

No, Race was confused because Spot had done the legwork for him and was now standing in front of the lodging house, arms crossed across his chest and was staring Race down like he was ready for a fight.

Race wouldn’t be opposed to throwing a few punches, himself, if he had a choice. His ribs had healed up enough so that he didn’t wince with every step, so he was more than ready to take on Spot fucking Conlon, thank you very much.

“Yous ever think of how it made me feel?” Spot started without precursor, staring up at Race who had yet to make his way down the stoop. A few kids were loitering on the steps, not ready to go inside yet, but with one look from Race they fled through the door, leaving the two teenagers alone.

“How what made you feel, _Sean?_ ” And yeah, that was a low blow, but Race never did say he was playing fair in the first place.

Spot bristled at that particular piece of information seeing the light of the late afternoon sun.

“How yous just don’t show up at the track one day. How my boys and I look all ove’ for ya and yous still not there, so I make my way over that damned bridge,” Spot pointed behind them, where the spires of the bridge were just visible, “just to see Jack fuckin’ Kelly sauntering his way across with his newest plaything, and alls I can think about is _you._ That you did something stupid enough that they were now comin’ to tell me that you were nothing more than a dead body, _Anthony.”_

Race sucked in a breath, realization beginning to crash down on him.

“And then,” Spot continued, not yet realizing that his words had already sent Race off kilter and leaning into the railing on the stairs, “theys ask me to join a strike. As if you weren’t the second command. As if you didn’t see me every day and spend halfa your nights in Brooklyn. As if I wasn’t important enough for yous to come ask me directly.” Spot pointed now, stepping up the stairs so that he was on the same ground as Race. “If you didn’t see it as me being important enough for you to come ask me for help, I decided that maybe this,” Spot gestured between the two of them, “was a lot more one sided than you led me to believe.”

Spot didn’t give Race a chance to rebuttal, he turned on his heel and walked down the street with purpose, as if he hadn’t just taken Race’s heart out of his chest to carry back to Brooklyn as his prize.

* * *

Racetrack was heartbroken.

Everyone knew why. Everyone knew how. Everyone knew. It wasn’t like you could just fight with Spot Conlon on the doorstep of lodging and everyone not know what happened.

His sales were so low that Jack took pity on him and handed over his roll in the mornings and Albert stuck close to Race’s side every day, trying to nudge him towards clients.

They were all trying to take the chains off of him, trying to make it so he could breathe again, but nothing worked. The outside was too bright, and the streets too loud, and everything just hurt. There were motions Race went through, he did them all as well as he could, but nothing felt right anymore.

Had he been that used to everything? When had Spot become such an integral part of his existence that Race now couldn’t function without him? When had everything switched from something that was fun to something that had the power to rip his entire being to shreds?

Maybe this was why it was illegal to fall in love with your own gender. Because apparently, they had the ability to tear you apart but no ability to put you back together.

* * *

It had been two weeks since the strike, three days since Spot had shown up at the door and taken every ounce of joy from Race’s heart. In those three days Race had moped and wallowed and possibly cried himself to sleep more than once.

But he had also thought. He had prepared speeches, he had practiced them in his head whilst shouting headlines and smoking on the fire escape. So now, as he walked off the bridge with a confidence he wasn’t sure he wasn’t faking, he knew what he was going to say. He was going to say the truth. No matter how harsh it sounded. His papes weighed down his side in his bag, but instead of heading straight towards the track, he took a sharp left and walked to the distribution window he knew Spot bought from.

When the Brooklyn boys noticed Race walking into their turf they all stiffened, ready to strike if Race was here to start the fight back up again. Instead of that Race strutted right up to Spot, close enough that only the two of them could hear the words he muttered before turning on his heel and making way to the track.

“You know where to meet me.”

* * *

Spot Conlon was tired.

The strike had all but zapped the life out of him. He hadn’t slept for the three full days he had been involved in it. His boys had done their part and they had won. It was the best outcome, so why did the entire thing feel like the worst decision he had ever made?

Race. Race was, like the rest of the emotions that were jumbled inside of him, the reason for that feeling, too. 

When Jack had shown at the bridge Spot had feared for the worst. That this was the day that he’d learn news that would finally break the toughass king of Brooklyn into pieces.

When he had learned that Race was just in Midtown that fear had bubbled into anger.

And now he was just tired. Tired of explaining himself to someone who didn’t want to hear it, tired of his boys watching him like he was something fragile they had to protect, tired of the games and the stupidity that followed Race around like his shadow.

But somehow, Spot still found himself standing under the foot of the bridge staring at Race. For what it was worth, he looked sheepish and drawn in on himself. It wasn’t a look that suited Race well at all and was defiantly different from the one he had been wearing at distribution that morning.

“I didn’t ask ya to help us because I didn’t want you to make the decision for me,” Race looked up from his shoes and met Spot’s softening glare. “At least I didn’t want you to think that _I’d_ think you’d come runnin’ when I called.”

“But that is exactly why yous was upset,” Spot pointed out, still standing his ground even though some primal part of him was poking at his back, begging him to step up to Race.

“I didn’t think it would make me feel so abandoned,” Race shrugged, as if talking about emotions was something the two of them were even familiar with doing. “I didn’t realize how much I-“ Race continued to speak unprompted and took a step towards Spot, filling the gap between them with his body, “how much I needed you there with me. I’s was terrified, Spotty.”

“It wasn’t about us though,” Spot spoke softly now that Race was near, “I have double the littles you gots on that side of the bridge, I had to think of them. But,” Spot glanced over his shoulder quickly to make sure no one was walking near them before reaching up and brushing his fingers against Race’s cheekbone, thumb running along the edge of the bruise around his eye, “I didn’t think hearin’ that you lot got soaked as bad as you did would make me want to put my fist through every guy who put a hand on you.” Race leaned into his touch for a moment before pulling back.

“Jack was gone, and you weren’t there, and I, I had no idea what to do,” Race clenched his eyes shut and Spot dropped his hand away from where it was hovering midair, too aware of how out in the open they were. “For the first time since my folks died, I didn’t know where I fit anymore.”

“Racer,” Spot had to say the boy’s name a few times before he opened his eyes. They were watery but he was holding back his tears as well as he could for someone who had just been through the hell he had. “You know you belong here just as much as you belong there.” Spot pointed across the river to emphasize his point.

“Do I though?” Race pulled back further with a dark laugh.

“Course you do.”

Race stared at Spot then, as if the idea that he was welcome in Brooklyn, welcome to Spot, at any point in time was absurd. It made Spot’s stomach ache.

“Race you always belong here.”

“I was so horrible to you at the rally.”

“I was horrible to you after. Plus, yous had a right to be.” Spot shrugged at took his own step forward, closing the gap between them once again. “We were both horrible, but we’re both still back here. Together.”

“Why are you forgiving me?”

“Who said there was anything to forgive? Race,” Spot took one more step so they were close enough for him to barely speak and for him to have to look up to meet Race’s eye, “People fight with one another, but they fight for what they love, together.” He left the meaning of that up to Race to interpret.

“Together,” Race repeated in a whisper.

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @velocitytimes2 because I post a lot of junk and enjoy talking to people.


End file.
